Decisions
by newgirl87
Summary: Carson and Hughes Character Studies: the fateful moments and decisions that have kept them on the path towards one another. Carson first. Hughes Second. And a combined decision epilogue. Don't be too fooled by the genres - there's some humor and comforting stuff in this too.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: It is my firm belief that Mrs. Hughes has said 'Suppose a _, Suppose a _' many many many times.  
_

 _Also, they aren't mine. And the lines from the show are definitely from the show._

* * *

 ** _1910 - April  
_**

 _Never leave anything to chance._ Carson had always said this was his motto, but he was finding it hard to reconcile this with his utter failure to make a will.

He lay ill in bed. Breathing was still difficult and he still felt as though he were on the brink of death. A hard throbbing in his head told him his fever had returned. It was useless, at this point, to consider a Last Will and Testament.

Once upon a time he had considered leaving everything he had to the young Lady Mary. She was as close to a daughter as he would ever have, but that thought was dismissed quickly as other thoughts of impertinence took its place. Truly the reason he hadn't yet made a will was due to the sole fact he had no one to whom he could leave anything.

His thoughts turned to the woman sitting next to him. Mrs. Hughes sat near a small candle reading quietly. She had been sitting besides his bed for the last two nights. Doctor Clarkson had no nurses to lend, everyone in the village it seemed was ill. Many blamed Hailey's Comet for the onslaught of fever gripping Yorkshire, others blamed the rise of sinners and the End of Days. Carson thanked God for Mrs. Hughes. The soft rustle as she turned a page in her book or the quiet breaths she took as she slowly dosed off meant he had a companion in this dark time. She'd risen to the challenge of nurse as easily as she met her routine challenges of the house. He adored her for it.

A cold cloth touching his forehead pulled him from his thoughts. Mrs. Hughes gently dabbed his aching fever away. He tried to speak. She shushed him quietly and murmured something about resting. It pained him to know he could never care for her in the way he desperately wanted - he could care about her, but he could never care for her. Over the years he had learned to laugh at himself whenever he thought of the horrified look on her face if she should ever find out how much he loved her.

Her deft hands began to pull at his blankets until they were free. A rush of cold air bore gooseflesh upon his skin. He must have sweated through his sheets again. She never left him exposed for long, throwing another cover over him and tucking him in as quickly as two of her maids could make a bed. She returned to her seat and began to read again.

He watched her out of the corner of his eyes. He remembered how quickly his adoration for her had grown - for her skills, work ethic, moral ethic, her wit - how he had learned to ask for her opinion just so they could talk. It would be all too easy to leave her everything. She would certainly deserve it after the way she looked after him.

Yes, Carson decided as the soft edges of sleep overtook him, he would leave his meager fortune to Mrs. Hughes. That way he could finally care for her.

* * *

 ** _1912 - September_**

 _Honor and_ _integrity._ Those were her words. They floated around his mind hours now since she had said them. He had always wondered what she thought of him, but feared the answer. _A_ _man of honor and integrity_. He couldn't have asked for better.

The wine was getting to his head. She had declined his offer to join him after they had finished dinner. The soft smile she afforded him as she headed up the stairs was a little comfort he could carry with him. He drank alone. The others had followed Mrs. Hughes not longer after.

Honor and integrity, but also cautious, and proper, and a tiny bit cowardly, he added to her description. And a thief now too, no less. He finished off the last of the glass and realized he wasn't at all sleepy. Pouring himself another he considered adding indecent to the list. Was it not indecent to pine after a co-worker? Let alone the fact he should not be pining for anyone, he was a butler and therefore chaste and resolute in his service to the family and no one else.

He fiddled with the pen he'd been holding. It was something for his hands to do while he sat alone in the dark thinking of her. A small candle stood on his table near the wall. It had withered towards its end. He finished his fourth glass, poured another, and resolved himself for the task ahead. Something needed to be released and there was only one way he could do it.

He pulled a paper from his desk and let the words flow:

 _My Dearest Mrs. Hughes,_

 _Today you said I "raise the tone of this household by being part of it". It pains me to know how high you place me in your esteem. I feel undeserving, for I have all but lied to you in all the time we have known one another. That while you have spent countless hours at my side reviewing orders and accounts I have quietly loved you from afar. Our moments together I wish to neither degrade as memories of unrequited love, nor do I wish to cause you discomfort in the future. I do not propose marriage because I know I could never ask of you anything you would not willingly give. I pray only that you do not read these words in horror._

 _Your humble servant,_

 _Charlie Carson_

He read and re-read the letter until the wine carried him to the edge of tolerance. Standing quietly he slipped the folded letter into an old book and determined to forget about it. The whole decision to write had been brought on by the wine anyhow.

* * *

 ** _1913 - May_**

She had agreed to have tea with him in the afternoon, so he stood in his pantry waiting impatiently.

It had been three days since the fair, since Anna's illness subsided, since Mrs. Hughes had turned down Mr. Burns. It should have been a victory - and at first it was. Another man had arrived upon her doorstep and she had deftly shooed him away. But with three days to think about it, Carson had found a better reason, truly, a worse reason why she had not accepted marriage: she lacked any and all interest in the institution.

And why should she have any interest? She had explained how important her work was to her. In a way, he reasoned, she was the perfect servant. A much better servant than he, though he would never say it aloud as she would want to know why and he could never tell her why.

As she knocked on his door, he felt whatever foolish hope he had once had diminish completely. No woman would ever love him. That he had been certain of before. And now, as she walked through his door smiling, a tray of biscuits in her arms, he decided that no woman could ever love him, especially not her.

* * *

 ** _1917 - April_**

He was a filthy hypocrite and he knew it. _Tell him...or_ _you'll regret it all your life long._ His advice to Lady Mary felt hollow and dull and dishonest. _  
_

"You're very quiet this evening." Mrs. Hughes said, bringing him back to the present.

He took a bite of his Shepard's pie to relinquish the need to answer, which only served to prove her point.

She sat besides him in what he thought of as her chair, working on a small puzzle as she spoke, using a serving tray as a table in her lap for all the small pieces.

"I hope you're not too upset with Mr. Lang." She said, "It wouldn't do you any good to dwell."

He shook his head and took a sip of water. He explained, "I got flustered -"

"It wouldn't do to dwell on that either."

Tossing her a look of faux annoyance, he returned to his meal. After a few bites he continued, "It's good of you to sit with me."

"Well, I know how you don't like to eat alone." She said. She added a little 'ah' as she found a piece she had been looking for.

"I don't recall ever saying that."

She pursed her lips and looked up at him, "I'll admit, it was a while ago."

Their eyes locked. He felt a heaviness in his chest and quickly looked away. He might not have had a heart attack, but it wouldn't do to repeat what happened in the dinning room. He finished off his pie and set his fork down. Two thoughts had split his mind in half: tell her now, or don't tell her at all.

"Mrs. Hughes..." He started.

She looked up expectantly. He cleared his throat.

"Nevermind." He finished. He drained his cup of water. She removed the tray. He fell asleep in the dark, feeling the pressure of a failed night creep into his chest.

* * *

 ** _1918 - November_**

He made a list -

 _ _Chocolate shopping - Christmas_  
A walk - Thirsk  
Tea - Rippon  
Go to the pictures - Theda Bara?  
Write letters  
Visit Downton?  
Visit Haxby? - unheard of  
Cider - Grantham Arms  
A picnic?_

-of things they could do together so she wouldn't miss him.

* * *

 ** _1920 - May_**

He told Thomas he would polish the silver. He told Anna Mrs. Hughes had gone out for some errands. He told Alfred to tend the tea service. He told himself she would be fine.

He polished the silver.

He checked the time.

Polished silver.

Checked time.

Not a full minute had gone by.

If she came home with good news - cancer free - would she tell him?

If she came home with bad news - cancer - would she tell him?

If she came home with bad news - cancer - would he tell her?

Polish.

Time.

He couldn't ask her to marry him. It would be selfish.

He would have to control himself, more so now than ever before, if the news was bad.

He couldn't cry in front of her. It would be selfish.

Polish.

Time.

Polish.

Time.

He wouldn't cry in front of her.

He wouldn't tell her he loved her.

Polish.

Time.

He could care for her.

He would make her last months her happiest months.

He would bring back his old jokes, his juggling.

He would dance for her - if she wanted, if it would help.

He could read to her.

Polish.

Time.

Polish.

Time.

He could tell her the story about how he broke his nose.

Or how he learned to ride a bicycle.

Or how he spent one summer leaning out of a tree doing parodies of Romeo and Juliet.

Polish.

Time.

He could sing Modern Major General and forget the words on purpose - because he knows she knows them all.

Polish.

Time.

He could hold her if she wanted, if she was sad, if she needed it.

He could hold her hand.

Polish.

Time.

He would sit by her bedside and read, change her sheets, help her with her jigsaw puzzles.

Polish.

Time.

He would watch as her body stilled, letting go of her last breath.

He would say goodbye.

He would not cry in front of her.

Polish.

Time.

Polish.

Time.

He could be losing his dearest friend.

Polish.

The door clicked open. Another door shut. Footsteps in the kitchen.

He forgot to drop the rag in his hand as he ran.

* * *

 ** _1920 - September_**

It was not the first night they had comforted one another. When William died, she spent the night in his pantry talking about all the maids and footmen they had brought up, the ones they had lost - William was not the first - and the ones they had given away to other houses and spouses.

It was tradition, in a way. A dreary tradition. To sit up all night discussing the person who had died. It helped keep the memories alive. He often wondered if it would be wise to include the others, help them to grieve. He never mentioned it to her.

They didn't discuss anything that night. No words about how kind Lady Sibyl was, how thoughtful, what a great nurse. Instead, she pulled her hand from his and made tea. It took her longer than usual and her voice comforting the others stood out as the reason why. Neither of them sent anyone upstairs to bed that night. They themselves sat in his pantry, silent.

At some point she fell asleep. She cried in her sleep. It was the only time he had seen her cry.

He gave her a blanket. He stopped himself from giving her a kiss on the cheek. He gave her his pantry to sleep while he sat in her sitting room to weep.

* * *

 ** _1922 - April_**

 _It changes you from where I'm looking._

Her words kept him awake at night.

Was it possible to love two people at once? Perhaps he had loved Alice because of the way her eyes would light up when she saw him. Perhaps he loved Mrs. Hughes because of the way she cared for him, even when they were at odds. Perhaps love was fickle and bestowed itself upon only the select few who could be loved in returned.

He was now among that select few.

It made him question his past decisions. Suppose he had stayed with the theater. Suppose he had fought for Alice. Suppose _a bomb goes off,_ he could hear Mrs. Hughes berate him.

He could have had a life outside of service, a life he had not considered since leaving the theater. A life which now showed a glimmer of hope. He was, after all, in his sixties, close to retirement age. His diligence in never leaving anything to chance meant he had paid into a number of schemes, done in case he became ill in his old age, but now he could retire easily.

He rolled onto his side, his bed squeaking. He did not want to retire. It would mean leaving her behind, which he would not do now, not now there was the smallest of chances. She seemed to be coming into his pantry more and more often these days, offering another glimmer of hope. But he would not do anything until he was sure she felt even slightly what he felt.

* * *

 ** _1923 - July_**

She had offered him her hand.

 _I know I could never ask of you anything you would not willingly give._ He remembered thinking that once.

She had willingly given him her hand.

* * *

 ** _1924 - June_**

His plans were written in the back of his wine ledger -

 _Plan A, approximated time 4 months:_

 _Step 1: Discuss Retirement_  
 _Step 2: Discuss Mrs. Patmore's new purchase_  
 _Step 3: Ask about investing in property together_  
 _Step 4: Mrs. Hughes sees through plan_  
 _Step 5: Propose_

 _Plan B, approximated time 1 year:_

 _Step 1: Discuss Retirement_  
 _Step 2: Discuss Mrs. Patmore's new purchase_  
 _Step 3: Ask about investing in property together_  
 _Step 4: Discuss rental ideas_  
 _Step 5: Discuss rental ideas - Bed and Breakfast_  
 _Step 6: Search for Properties_  
 _Step 7: Buy property_  
 _Step 8: Buy furniture, discuss retirement_  
 _Step 9: Comment on difficulty running the big house and their small property_  
 _Step 10: Propose_

\- and were promptly torn to shreds and burned when she wished him luck.

* * *

 ** _1924 - September_**

"Mrs. Hughes, might I have a word?" He asked, catching her in the middle of the hallway.

She followed him into his pantry. They had not yet spoken of her sister, or his property, since the other night.

"Have we settled on the desert for Lord Lawson tomorrow?" He asked.

"We have, Mr. Carson. I thought I put a copy of the menu on your desk." She said.

He frowned, "I must have missed it."

She shuffled a few pages in her hand, double checking.

"Ah, here it is. Sorry about that." She said, handing him the missing menu.

He took it from her, purposefully touching her hand as he did so.

"Is there anything else?" She asked.

"No. Thank you."

She swept from the room. He watched her go and decided he would propose on Christmas Eve.

* * *

 _Reviews always appreciated! (I have no idea why there was so much rhyming going on in this)  
_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Because you can't do one without doing the other. My apologies for unintentionally falling into a stereotype: men and women are equally as complicated, it's just Mrs. Hughes required a few more words than Mr. Carson.  
_

 _There will be an epilogue._

 _Thank you for your reviews! They feed my hungry soul. Please see my profile if you're curious why I don't respond._

* * *

 ** _1878 - September_**

"But Bertie, _I let you kiss me!_ " She said.

She held tightly to her nightgown, shivering slightly in the cold of the barn. Albert stood across from her, holding a lantern. He still wore his day clothes. It would have been scandalous for a sixteen year old girl to be sneaking to meet a seventeen year old boy, but she trusted him. Until now.

"I'm sorry, Elsie." He said

Staring a hole into the top of his head she felt a swell of anger deep in her belly. Her blue eyes flashed dangerously. She could hear her father's voice, telling her to keep her temper. She paid no head.

Albert backed away.

"Really, Elsie, I'm sorry." He said.

She advanced. His back came up against a pillar and he was stuck. The lantern swung in his hand.

 _SLAP!_

His face bore the red mark of her hand. She slapped him again, and would have a third time if he hadn't grabbed her arm.

"Elsie!" He said.

The fear in his voice stilled her. She wrenched her arm from him and turned away.

He whispered, "It's not what you think it is."

She stood a moment, catching her breath. Then she rounded on him, "I'll tell you what I think it is -"

"Don't." He said, defeated.

In the flash of a moment she read his face and he read hers. They'd grown up together and sometimes scared the villagers with how well they could read one another's thoughts. Whatever this horrible situation was, it was serious, and not just because he had kissed her the night before.

"What's changed?" She asked. Fear echoed from his eyes to hers. Fear for their friendship. But she could also see love in his eyes. She had always seen love in his eyes.

"But that's the point," he said, "nothing's changed, Elsie. I love you. I do - don't start - I do love you. But I could never - we could never -"

"You know my father wouldn't mind," she jumped in, "and Ma just adores you. So does Becky."

"But we could never -," He sighed, his body slumped in frustration, "You'd just be stuck with me. We couldn't be - wouldn't be - properly married."

"Well why not?"

He took a deep shuddering breath and ran his fingers through his dark brown locks. His equally dark eyes darted to and fro as she watched him struggle for words.

"Do you remember George?" He asked, his voice had almost returned to its usual mirthful pitch.

His tone surprised her. She nodded, "Aye, the English man all the girls lost their heads over last summer."

"I've been writing him." He said as though this explained everything. Then he swallowed sharply, "Because I'm in love with him."

She felt as though he'd punched her in the gut. Clutching her belly, she withdrew into herself even as she stared wide eyed looking at nothing.

He continued, "I didn't quite know, not really, or maybe I didn't want to know. Cause it's wrong, Elsie, isn't it? And I had always thought - me and you - but then we kissed and I thought, 'no this is wrong', and I mean no offense by it, you're a good kisser, but it just didn't feel like - it doesn't feel like when he and I -"

She walked away from him.

"I'm not sure I can be hear-" she started, but then shook her head. She didn't have the words.

"Elsie, I'm sorry. I am, truly." He said. He walked up to her and took her cold hands in his own, "I love you, but I can't be with you, not like that."

"It's illegal," She said, looking up to him for the first time.

"Will you give me away?" He asked, half-joking, trying to bring them back to where they had always stood.

Her body relaxed at the familiarity, but inside she felt betrayed, sick, worry. And when she looked in his eyes she felt hollow. "No, Bertie. I won't give you away."

He smiled.

She pulled her hands from his. She didn't want him to feel them shake. She didn't want him to know how hurt she was. So she joked, "I'll have to meet George, properly this time. See if he's good enough for you."

* * *

 ** _1900 - January_**

Sitting quietly in her bedroom she went over it all again in her head: she'd been made head housemaid at age thirty-five. That was fifteen years of hard work and one promotion. At this rate, she would be a ladies maid when she was fifty and housekeeper when she was sixty-five.

She was at crossroads with little time to make a decision. In a way, it was exhilarating. Downton Abbey offered a timeline of promotion much more agreeable than the path she was on now. Lox Hall, on the other hand, offered the farmland tilled by Joe Burns.

She glanced around her room at all the memories it held. The few precious possessions each called to different chapters of her life.

On her desk sat the small box of tools given by her father the year before he passed. On top of the toolbox was her mother's most recent letter: _Nevermind about the farm, I dare say I've a good decade or two left in me. How wonderful you must be feeling, anything could happen for you!_

She knew 'the farm' also meant Becky. Her mother was placing her eldest daughter's happiness before her own. Something about that didn't sit well.

Her eyes sought out the small picture frame that sat besides her bed. The quietly handsome face of Joe greeted her and she smiled at him. This was her latest and greatest chapter. She sighed. Joe would be worth it. He had her heart from the moment she heard him laugh. She'd never known anyone she could talk to so freely, not since Bertie left for London.

It was odd, really, when she thought about it, finding love at her age. She certainly hadn't expected it.

Finally her eyes landed on the letter from Downton. The script had been neat and the language wasn't quite so antiquated as the other Housekeeper's she'd worked under. Joe had told her to go. He knew she wanted to travel, which she could never do caring for a farm and a young step-son. If she became a ladies maid (eventually, hopefully) she might finally have the chance. He trusted her to make the right decision for them when she was ready. _For them,_ he had said. The words still sent a shiver down her spine.

She would have to tell Joe about Becky. Yes, and she would have to tell him before he proposed. He deserved to know what he was taking on, and not telling him would be tantamount to lying. If he could trust her to return from Yorkshire, then she could trust him with this.

* * *

 ** _1902 - August_**

Forty years ago she had been born.

Thirty-five years ago she had been blessed with a baby sister.

Twenty years ago her father had passed and she had joined service to help her mother keep the farm.

Ten years ago Bertie left for London and she still hadn't gone to visit him.

Two years ago her mother died suddenly and she had turned down Joe Burns' proposal.

Five months ago her colleagues started calling her Mrs. Hughes instead of Elsie.

Eleven hours ago one of her maids had drowned in the lake.

Ten hours ago Mr. Carson had tried to save the girl, though the maid was already dead.

Three minutes ago she found Mr. Carson weeping in his pantry.

One minute ago she silently agreed to a toast of whiskey and a fond discussion of one kind young girl who died too young.

* * *

 ** _1907 - May_**

He stood leaning against her sitting room door frame looking down on her. They were closer than was strictly necessary. It was her fault mainly, she was leaning in whispering secrets about the house no one but the Butler and Housekeeper could know. **  
**

"She's keen, I'm telling you." She insisted.

"Mrs. Hughes," said Carson, "I think I would know if a young lady was, as you say, _keen_ on me."

Over the years, Mrs. Hughes had gathered an alarming amount of evidence that dear old Carson was as blind as a bat when it came to anything beyond the scope of his duties. This latest conversation would be put down as the final nail in the coffin.

"If you say so," she said. She moved to walk away, which only served to bring them closer. She had found she enjoyed teasing him, so she joked, "Just don't come to me when she's gone too far."

Five hours later she choked on her own words.

Everyone was in bed. Pearl had been sacked. Carson sat in Mrs. Hughes' sitting room, swaying like a drunkard though he'd nothing to drink.

"I should fetch the doctor." She said.

"No," He mumbled.

His face was as white as a sheet, but he wasn't sweating, and he didn't appear to be in any pain. In truth, she wasn't entirely certain if his paleness came from the venom Pearl had put in his tea or from the fact that he had been viciously tricked, and nearly kissed, by a housemaid.

"A footman, then," she argued, "you should be in bed."

He shook his head, then looked as if he instantly regretted the movement.

"I'm going to get Oscar. Don't move." She said.

She made to walk out of her room, but he grabbed at her wrist. He missed, and when she stopped, he took her hand. Looking down at his pleading eyes, she felt a pang of remorse.

"They musn't -" He tried, and then groaned.

Softly, she said, "Very well."

She placed her hand under his arm and slowly stood him up. Half of him appeared to follow her hand's commands. The other half dragged several seconds behind. His weight crushed her shoulder.

Somehow, and she never understood how she managed it, she got him up the stairs, to the attics, and into his bed. She had never been in his bedroom before, but there was no time for sightseeing. Gently she undid his tie. After a moment's hesitation she also took off his jacket and slipped off his shoes.

He mumbled something that sounded like 'thank you'.

She shushed him, then asked, "Where do you keep your jimjams?"

He pointed to the bottom part of his cabinet, looking thoroughly puzzled. She found a matching pair and set the folded cloth on top of him.

"You get those on and I'll be back with a glass of water." She said, "Can you manage that?"

He nodded and fumbled with the soft material. She watched him for a moment then disappeared. When she reappeared in his room she found him dead asleep. Setting the water on his bedside table, she bit her lip at the sight of him.

He had managed to put his pajamas on, but failed miserably at buttoning the top. His chest was exposed, as was his tummy. Setting her candle down she undid and redid the buttons. He would never know. A twinge of shame passed through her, but she knew he would be more comfortable.

She closed the door silently behind her feeling guilty she hadn't stepped in earlier, though she hoped her helping him through it washed away some of her sin.

* * *

 _ **1912 - March  
**_

Sleepless:

11:49PM

 _Fifty years, half a century. Tim Burns would be nearly eighteen now. Did he look like his father? Or his long dead mother? Did he like Ivy, his new mother? Had she made the right choice? Of course. Of course she did. She imagined him looking a bit like Mr. Patrick. At the very least the same height. It always seemed children outgrew their parents. How very odd.  
_

12:35AM

 _She might have had a child of her own as well. If she had accepted him, if she had gone down a different path. At least one, maybe two. If she had survived childbirth. Her aunt hadn't. Was that something that ran in families? No, then there wouldn't be anyone to keep having children._

1:42AM

 _She didn't mind, not really, that she hadn't had any children. At least that's what she told herself. Was it just something she told herself? How many things she told herself were just things she told herself? Truth? Was there such a thing as truth? Thinking about truth never put anyone to sleep.  
_

2:16AM

 _Becky wouldn't have been as well cared for. No. Living on a farm. Would Joe have permitted it? Yes. He was a kind man. They would have gotten along. But when there wasn't food? Or if he had to sell? Suppose they'd lost the land. Suppose she was hit by a falling star. Right now. In her bedroom. At least then she'd get some sleep.  
_

3:43AM

 _She enjoyed Downton, as a place to work. The hours were long. Her feet hurt. Though she was never really not working. Even when she went into the village she still played the person Mrs. Hughes. She was lucky, at least her persona was close enough to her real self, unlike some of her colleagues.  
_

4:21AM

 _Carson, Anna, William, she wouldn't have known them. If she had gone a different way. She loved them, loved them all really, in some foolish way. Love them and they're easier to deal with. Love them and they're easier to manage. Love them. It had been her father's motto. She got her temper from her mother. She missed her mother.  
_

5:04AM

 _She might as well get up, get started for the day. She would ask Carson how he felt about it. Surely he had doubts too.  
_

* * *

 _ **1919 - April**_

Her father had died from a heart attack. She had watched as his body stilled and his great height came crashing down, smashing his head against the kitchen table. He had woken, miraculously, and an hour later died of a second heart attack.

So when Carson stumbled in the dinning room, she wasn't so worried - it didn't look like the kind of heart attack she knew. Of course, she sat with him anyway, just to be sure he didn't leave her the hour after; to be sure he didn't give himself a heart attack after his first failed dinner.

And when he said he was going to Haxby: She would miss him, her only confidant, but they could write. If anything it might have brought them closer together, which, the more she thought about it, the more she didn't mind it. They always seemed more open with one another when he was away for the season. He was easier to talk to through letters. Haxby would have just been a long season. No, she hadn't worried about Haxby.

But Spanish flu -

She'd read the papers. She knew the numbers, the ever increasing numbers of dead; the pictures showing row after row of hospital beds, some eerily empty.

That's when she stopped sleeping. That's when she bit her lip so hard it bled. That's when she found herself standing at the door between the men and women's corridors in the middle of the night, her hand reaching for the key, before her rational brain caught up with her and she sent herself back to bed.

* * *

 _ **1920 - April**_

It had become a routine over the past week.

Get undressed.

Stare at mirror.

But the mirror didn't show anything.

Standing with her nightgown open, revealing herself to herself, she squinted at the glass, feeling awkward.

It didn't show anything.

Maybe she had imagined it.

She pressed her fingers to her breast, massaging.

There.

Right there.

No, she hadn't imagined it.

But the mirror showed nothing.

She would need a second opinion.

She couldn't put it off any longer.

But who?

Anna?

No - Anna had her husband to worry about. No need to add to her troubles.

Mrs. Patmore?

She wouldn't be able to keep the secret. Daisy would find out.

She wished Lady Sybil weren't in Ireland.

Who?

Carson - she almost laughed.

 _Could you spare a moment? Would you mind touching my breast? Tell me what you feel?_

No, but she would have to tell him.

Who?

Mrs. Patmore.

She would ask Mrs. Patmore's opinion.

And she would tell Mr. Carson if it was confirmed.

If she found the right time.

The right words.

Maybe she had imagined it.

The mirror didn't show anything.

* * *

 _ **1920 - September**_

"We have to wake the others." He croaked.

He stood in her doorway, clad in his jimjams and green robe, hair tousled from sleep. His eyes looked faraway, like he hadn't meant to come to her room in the first place.

Her first thought was that this was a dream. She had been dreaming of him far more often of late, ever since she'd heard him singing. Ever since she realized he had willingly made the jump to love before she had. The first, and only, change he accepted before her.

Her second thought was that something was terribly wrong.

She glanced sideways at the foot of her bed. The small table that sat there held her own robe. He shuffled in and picked it up. Feeling the soft material in his hands, as though comforted by it, he eventually moved to her bedside. He held the faded cloth out to her. He looked like a little boy who was asking to be tucked back in after an encounter with the bogeyman.

Simultaneously she pulled her robe on and slipped out of bed. She waited. His faraway look continued.

"We have to wake the others..." she offered.

"Lady Sybil's dead." He said.

Something cold must have fallen upon her; her stomached caved in and her breath gave way.

"Ana - Anca-," He stuttered.

"Eclampsia." She finished. Memories of her aunt.

He nodded.

They stood together in the middle of her bedroom. The house creaked. Neither spoke. Neither wanted to share the news. Sharing meant it was real. She glanced at him, watched him fiddle with his robe.

She breathed, "We have to wake the others."

* * *

 _ **1922 - July**_

"Lord Gillingham was quite humorous this evening."

"You're not thinking of reviving your act?"

She sat with Mr. Carson in his pantry. The wine was poured; the fire lit. He nattered on about Lord Gillingham and the dinner. She couldn't stop thinking about Mr. Green.

She prayed Mr. Bates hadn't been listening. Hadn't been listening as _that man_ blithely commented on Dame Nellie and needing _peace and quiet_. _We were both to blame._ Her stomach clenched so she took a sip of wine. _That man_. If she knew she could have got away with it she would have murdered him in the boot room.

"...Belfast to join Charlie. You could come if you like."

"Mr. Carson, was that a proposal?"

"I am not retiring to Belfast."

After that she made an attempt to keep herself in the present. She observed him as he continued his story: His glass was empty yet he made no move to go to bed. His eyes glanced towards the decanter quite obviously considering a second glass. His voice remained smooth, and she laughed at the end, because it was funny, whatever it was Lord Gillingham had said.

She finished her glass and set it on the table. In a few minutes they would say their goodnights. In a few minutes she would be left alone with her thoughts. She relished the time she had with him if only because being with him brought her into the safety of his ignorance. She had been gratified at his 'I'd be honored' when she asked if they could have some wine after dinner. It was pleasant being with him, and she needed something pleasant.

" _Is_ something the matter?"

"Why? Should there be?"

Nothing was the matter - he couldn't know, he would have died at the shock, at the dishonorability of it all. He would have blamed himself, because it was in that way he and Mr. Bates were so alike. Because he was honorable and noble and carried himself with honesty and integrity. He wouldn't understand that it was _that man_ and no one else but _that man_.

"Is there anything I can help with?"

She nearly jumped, not realizing they had been walking out the door. Her instinct was to tell him no, he couldn't help as there was nothing that was needing help, but she found the words died upon her lips just as she readied to open them. She considered him. There was really only one honest thing she could say.

"You already have."

* * *

 _ **1924 - August  
**_

Sleepless:

12:41AM

 _It felt like courting. He was courting her. The regularity of their midnight drinks. The insistence that he walk with her to the village any chance he got. He was courting her. Wasn't that what the young men did? Find excuses to be near their girl? Was she his girl? No, she was a woman. An old woman at that._

1:08AM

 _He had even read, no, remembered, some poem, a Scottish poem no less. She could still hear his booming voice and the hitch in his throat as he forgot the third line. She had laughed at him. Poems, picnic baskets, walks. Yes, the very definition of courting._

2:34AM

 _Sleepless, thinking about a man. How terribly romantic - this was why servants shouldn't fall in love or get married._

3:21AM

 _It was because he was courting her, or because it felt like he was courting her, she couldn't say the words. She couldn't tell him. Once a month she made a payment. Once a month she felt a twinge of familial guilt._

4:02AM

 _If he was courting her then it would be tantamount to calling it off. She didn't want to call it off. Not with him._

5:31AM

 _She was loath to leave her bed. It had become increasingly difficult to face him, to hide behind his enthusiasm. And she was going to have to tell him. Soon._

6:00AM

 _One day, he will wake naturally._

* * *

 _ **1924 - December**_

Happy Christmases floated around the servants hall as each of their friends shuffled in. Mr. Bates walked in with Anna. There was less fanfare than there had been the night before when wine was opened and welcomes were shouted. That had almost felt as though everyone were toasting _their_ congratulations, and as they all raised their glasses (in salute to Mr. Bates) she shared a knowing glance with Mr. Carson. No, Charlie.

Breakfast humbled her. Life carried on in the worst of moments, but also in the best. His whispered words from the night before as they re-entered the main hall flew through her mind: _As if nothing's changed_.

And in a way, nothing had.

He still sat at the head of the table, greyer than when she had first met him, a tad rounder too.

She still drank two cups of tea.

She heard Mr. Barrow make a disparaging remark.

And Mr. Moseley ask a silly question.

Anna beamed at her husband.

Miss Baxter sat quietly watching it all.

Mr. Carson's knee touched hers.

 _That_ was new. She peaked over her tea cup at him. A smug grin graced his features as he played with his porridge. His eyes shifted to check her reaction.

She grinned.

"Happy Christmas, Mr. Carson."

He reddened ever so slightly, "Happy Christmas, Mrs. Hughes."

* * *

 _Reviews are always appreciated!_


	3. Epilogue

_A/N: Thank you for your reviews!_

* * *

 ** _1925 - March_**

Carson knocked on her open door, entered, and then closed it gently behind him.

Mrs. Hughes swiveled in her chair, an eager expression gracing her features. Waving a hand to offer him his chair, she settled herself more firmly in her own. Planting her hands in her lap she watched as he set one hand on his knee. His other hand held an official looking document. He took a deep breath.

"Mrs. Hughes," he began, then cleared his throat, "I've been going over our accounts."

The gleam in her eye brightened and she leaned forward ever so slightly, "Yes."

"I realize, of course, I may be making some assumptions." He glanced at her, worry shifted his eyebrows crookedly, "I hope you don't mind."

"What -"

He raised his hand to still her, "Of course, I understand, we haven't spoken on the topic of our property recently, and I realize, now, that the figures I am using are entirely of my own devising. Your input is, as always, valued, so I hope you won't be put off by my numbers."

"Mr. Carson," She started.

He continued, "I should also mention that there is far more work to be done on the matter, so please take heed that I am not in any way suggesting that what I am suggesting is in fact the final decision. I merely wish to hear what you think."

She nodded. Her head cocked to one side as she waited for him to drop the other shoe.

"As it stands if we are - if you are still interested - our accounts look quite good, should we pursue our joint idea of a bed and breakfast." He said, "Having an income in our retirement would not be remiss."

"I quite agree," she said, forcing the words in between his.

He nodded, sighing; light apprehension faded from his shoulders, "Good. On that subject - of our bed and breakfast -"

He paused.

She offered him a light smile as if to say 'go on'.

"We have three rooms," He said.

He shifted in his seat; fingers flexed nervously.

"Yes," she agreed, "three rooms."

"If we allow for only one of the three rooms to be used as a guest room, in our retirement," he swallowed sharply, "we would not have quite as much to work with as compared to letting out two of the rooms."

He glanced at her quickly to gauge her expression.

Her mouth formed into the shape of an 'o'. Quickly, she pursed her lips.

Red sneaked up his skin past his collar. Looking away, he added, "If we, you and I, were to, er, only utilize one room, we would find ourselves more cared for, economically speaking of course."

"I see." She said.

They sat there. Her with her hands in her lap. Him with his papers, which presumably held the detailed accounts of what it would mean to share a room.

She spoke, "It would certainly be wise to 'maximize our profits'."

"Yes, it would be." He gave her a tight-lipped smile.

Her eyes brightened as her chest rose and fell slightly more rapidly than before.

He considered her, his eyes roaming up and down. More apprehension visibly fled from his body. His tight-lipped smile morphed into a near smug half-grin.

"Are we - in agreement?" He raised an eyebrow.

"I dare say, Mr. Carson," she said, "We are quite in agreement."

* * *

 ** _1925 - May_**

Mrs. Hughes entered his pantry, eyes glued to the documents in her hands.

"Could you spare a moment?" She asked, then looked up.

Carson's hands stilled from their candlestick polishing. He turned to give her his full attention, "Of course. What can I do for you?"

She fiddled with her papers, then quickly moved behind her to shut the door.

"You left me in charge of the furniture," she reminded him, voice business-like.

"Are these our selections?" He asked, indicating the papers in her hands.

"Well, yes and no." She took a deep breath, "There was one matter I wanted to discuss with you, before I made any arrangements."

"We already discussed the style," he said, brows knitted into puzzlement.

"It's not that." She looked away from him, her eyes raking over his fireplace before returning to take him in. She smiled, "It's the bedrooms."

He stood taller, fiddling with the rag in his hand. Then quickly, he threw his hands behind his back.

She started, "If we have two rooms to let -"

His face fell imperceptibly.

"-we need to consider the possibilities. We won't know who our guests are going to be, and I think we should prepare to have two distinctly different rooms." She finished. Then said, "three distinct rooms, really."

"That...all makes sense to me." He said. With a sideways glance, he added, "What were you thinking?"

"We'll need to invest in two twin beds."

His shoulders slumped. Before he could respond, she continued:

"Which is unfortunate, really, because it's more expensive to buy two twins than it is to buy, say, one full size." She shifted the papers in her hands as if trying to find the figures that evidenced her words.

His entire body stilled. To anyone observing him he might as well have died where he stood.

"What I mean to say," she went on, "is that it would be more economical to invest in two full sized beds and only one set of twins. If we put the twins in one of the guest rooms, we can be more accommodating."

He nodded, exhaling loudly.

"What are your thoughts?" She asked in the same tone she used when discussing the menus.

He hesitated, tilting on his toes a moment, "I'd say you've been very thorough."

"You've no objections then?"

He returned to his candlestick and ran the rag over it twice before saying, "No, Mrs. Hughes, I've no objections whatsoever."

THE END

* * *

 _Reviews are forever and always appreciated!_


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